The Cascade
by IamThePasserby
Summary: He looked at the passenger seat, and for a moment he didn’t understand why it was empty. Then his gaze found the huge hole in the windshield, and he saw the still form of Sam’s unmoving body lying facedown twenty feet away in an obvious puddle of blood...
1. Chapter 1

**THE CASCADE**

CHAPTER 1

The afternoon sun beat down on a highway that was wedged between twin fields of semi-green grass. Trees lined the horizon, and mountains hedged one side in the distance, while the cloudless sky remained undecided on whether it should remain blue or succumb to a more orange hue. The otherwise quiet day was interrupted pleasantly by a building rumble that grew as the source sped down the road. A black Chevy breached the distance, and the driver pushed the car happily down the asphalt as it approached a hill and proceeded to climb.

The conversation was casual and teasing as they sped down the empty highway.

"Face it, Sammy, the ladies just like green eyes better. Brown is too common, too boring. Green is attractive and exciting – you just can't beat the jade green eyes, dude."

"Shutup, Dean."

The laughter echoed out of the open passenger window as the hill came to a crest and they cruised down the other side, only to find another hill a mile further.

"Well at least I've got the hair. Women always like long hair. And the darker it is, the better. You've had the same haircut since seventh grade."

"Shutup, Sam."

Dean sat comfortably with his left arm resting on the steering wheel, his right hand digging into a bag of peanut M&Ms. Sam's long legs were tucked as comfortably as it was possible to be in the passenger seat, resting against the worn leather seat, obviously enjoying the breeze from the window, grinning to match Dean's expression, then letting out another chuckle as they continued to banter.

The afternoon sun inched just the slightest bit further towards the horizon, but the day was still bright as the brothers traveled along, glad that, for once, a day was passing in peace.

Sam turned in his seat and began to shuffle through the backseat's contents, looking for something.

"Whatcha need?" Dean asked, noticing Sam's search. The younger Winchester didn't look up at him, but answered with his arms still reaching.

"Don't we have a water bottle somewhere back here?"

"Um, yeah I think so. Probably on the floor." Dean glanced behind once, but couldn't see the plastic bottle of Dasani he remembered tossing in the back the last time they'd stopped.

"Huh…" was all Sam replied, before giving a small huff and facing forward again rather quickly. He undid his seat belt, and moved without restraint to scour the floor of the Impala's back half for the elusive water bottle. Dean grinned at his brother's determination, and pressed the Chevy's accelerator as they climbed another hill. They'd just about reached the hill's crest, and Sam sat back down after only a minute of rifling, empty handed. Dean cast his gaze over at his brother as he settled himself into his seat again, about to grab his seatbelt and refasten it. He met Sam's gaze as they were coming over the top of the hill's other side.

"Couldn't find it? I thought it-"

"DEAN! WATCH OU-"

The older hunter's foot flew to the brake, both hands suddenly gripping the steering wheel, and his eyes didn't even have time to fully register the massive fallen tree trunk that had lain hidden behind the hilltop, obstructing the road before them. He couldn't react fast enough to evade the impact, and he didn't even comprehend the meaning of the sounds and shapes of twisting metal, creaking wood, or shattering glass. He was unconscious before he could hear the thump of a body hitting pavement twenty feet in front of the car, and as the afternoon sun blazed down on the empty highway, a bleeding Dean remained slumped over the steering wheel of his slightly smoking car while the birds in the far off trees chirped happily and the day returned to its former quiet once more.

* * *

The first thing he was aware of was incredible pain. Every inch of him felt pummeled, and he couldn't remember why. He couldn't tell if he was bleeding, or if anything was broken, but he knew something was wrong.

The familiar smell of smoke from a tired engine met him, mingling with the scent of wood and dirt. Aside from how much he was hurting, he felt hot, almost sweaty, and he could hear slight popping and groaning sounds of something large and metallic settling.

"Sammy…" to his own ears his whispering voice sounded weak, pained. He struggled, moaning, to open his eyes, only managing to get his lids to flutter uselessly. He tried to move his head, but it was heavier than lead, and it ached like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer. He realized then that he was panting, and he noticed how much it was hurting to breathe.

"Sammy?" he said it a bit stronger this time, worried when no answer met his ears. He tried again to get his eyes to open, and this time he managed to blink them open fully.

He was staring at the bottom half of the steering wheel, his face pressed up against it with his left arm hanging over it. He could see his lap, and part of his right boot, and he remembered that he was in the Impala, driving down a highway with Sam. He comprehended the fact that they must have crashed.

And suddenly, it was terribly important that Sam answer him, and answer him _now_, because Dean needed to make sure he was okay right this second.

"Sam…" he called it louder, concern coating his tone even as he hissed from the pain that speaking so loudly caused, "Sammaaaaay!"

He cringed when even the slightest movement hurt so much he wanted to be sick, but he forced himself to push his head up so that he could look over at the seat beside him. He felt pieces of broken glass slide out of his hair, and something slightly warm and sticky was trickling down his face.

He looked at the passenger seat, and for a moment he didn't understand why it was empty. Then his gaze found the huge hole in the windshield, explaining the shattered glass everywhere. He saw the ridiculously large log that his precious Impala's front was crunched up against, crumpled and broken. He saw the empty highway that stretched for miles ahead of them.

And he saw the still form of Sam's unmoving body lying facedown twenty feet away in an obvious puddle of blood on the paved road.

"Oh god…"

He tried to push himself up, but a white hot sharpness seared along his body, out of his ribs and up his left knee, through his right shoulder and into his left elbow. His head was spinning, and he wanted to vomit. He lifted his eyes to see Sam outside on the road again.

"Sam-Sammy, oh my _god_…" his voice cracked on the last word, and he knew he had to do something.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up agonizingly slow, crying out and feeling new places where the warm, sticky substance was dripping or pooling. He continued to cry out as he reached for the door's handle, even though the door opened easily, and he had to stop for a minute when the door was opened before trying to move his legs.

And Dean knew in that moment that he needed help, that he wouldn't be able to make it all the way to his brother to see if he was ok, that even if he did he had no way of helping him here. He groaned as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, and dialed 911, hoping desperately that he had service.

The phone chirped happily against his ear, and the ringer thrummed, making his head hurt more as he tried not to scream while he extracted himself from the wreck that was once his beautiful car.

"911 Emergency response, what's your emergency?"

"I-I, my brother, we-we crashed…" Dean was finding it very hard to keep the panic and pain from his voice, and he shook tremendously as he struggled to edge along the side of the car in Sam's direction.

"Can you tell me where you are?"

"I think a-about thirty miles down highway...agh...fifty-seven." The length of the car ended, and he resorted to crawling inch by inch, his body screaming at him to collapse, leaving a trail of red on the ground beneath him, stemming from who-knew-where.

"East or West?"

"Um, West? Gaah…man..." he willed himself not to pass out, praying to any god who would hear to let him reach his brother, who seemed to be getting no closer. He needed Sam to be okay…

" What's your name, sir?"

"Dean," he was maybe close to halfway there now…

"Okay Dean? I'm gonna need you to try to stay as still as possible alright? Can you tell me if you're injured? What hurts?"

Dean cursed, not sure if it was out of anger at the situation or anger at the lady for bothering him about his meager injuries. He didn't care what was wrong with him, he just wanted Sam to be okay-

"Sir? Dean? Can you hear me?"

Dean dropped the phone, unable to keep his arm raised any longer, dragging himself along the hot asphalt amidst agony, feeling broken ribs scrape along the inside of his skin, sensing swelling in his dislocated shoulder, feeling the lightheadedness that came from loss of blood. Sam was only feet away, but it was so _far_…

"Sammy…_please_…" his eyes watered, and he didn't know if it was from the pain or from the fear, "Sam, answer me…" he had reached the puddle, and it was so much, Sam had lost so much blood, "oh god, _Sammy_…"

Dean pulled his unwilling body up alongside his brother's, until he was lying beside him in much the same position. He stared wide-eyed and uncomprehending at the sight of Sam's open eyes, glazed and unseeing, his open mouth, jaw obviously shattered, and the right side of his head bashed in so that it caved like a popped basketball, revealing the source of the flow that poured out and made the puddle around him.

"Sam," Dean forgot that his arm was burning, that his everything was piercing, he reached out and shook Sam's shoulder, not understanding why Sam wouldn't answer him, why he wasn't saying anything, or gasping, or crying, or groaning. He couldn't figure out why his brother's head looked so odd, why the massive amounts of red and gray that were splashed everywhere didn't make sense, though he knew they should mean something. He didn't get why his eyes looked so dull, or why his mouth wasn't moving, or why his arm was bent at an odd angle and it didn't seem to bother him at all.

And then it cascaded on Dean in a rush, and he found that he couldn't breath, couldn't scream, couldn't think, couldn't even keep his heart beating, because his world was slitting apart, and his life was surely over, and he wanted nothing more than to wake up from this horrible nightmare and be in a smelly motel with no air conditioning with his brother snoring or typing away on the laptop. He wanted to pass out and never wake up, for his car to start up again and run him over, anything to keep from seeing those sightless eyes one second more, anything to remove the image of Sam's broken body beside him, anything to wipe his brother's blood from his hands and wash it from his clothes, anything to erase this day, this highway, this crash.

Sammy was dead, and Dean could do nothing but sit and stare.

And Dean didn't know why, but he was sitting up all of a sudden, and he was holding the body in his arms and across his lap, and he couldn't remember when he had started to, but he was screaming, screaming like he'd never screamed in his life, and he didn't recall anything attacking him, but he swore he had new injuries, because he could feel a stabbing and a ripping inside of his very core, and surely his soul was bleeding to death, and he was certain he didn't have a heart anymore, because it must have imploded upon itself, and he knew nothing and heard nothing and saw nothing, because Sam was his everything, and without Sam there was nothing, and Dean was nothing, and nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing nothing nothing nothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothing…


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Dean was cold. He smelled alcohol and urine. There was an annoyingly incessant sound, like a bird but higher, more mechanical, too perfectly in time to be natural. He could hear faint squeaks like a rubber ball against marble and the murmur of far-off voices. He could tell it was light, because the whiteness shown through his eyelids, and it made him mad that Sam had forgotten to close the curtains and turn the TV off last night. He didn't want to wake up yet, even if this motel did smell bad.

He figured he might as well close the curtain himself, or he'd never get back to sleep. He wanted to sigh before he opened his eyes, but for some reason he couldn't find the energy to take the right kind of breath. He kept breathing slowly, and he found he couldn't really move his eyelids either. The annoying robot-bird started chirping more, getting faster, and he wished it would stop. He tried again to open his eyes, and when he couldn't he started to freak out a bit. He tried desperately to call Sam for help, but his lips felt numb, and his tongue was dry in his mouth. He tried to swallow, but it wasn't working right.

Someone turned up the TV, because the noises were louder, and the voices were, too. He heard one that was distinctly female, and it almost sounded like she was really in the room, but that didn't make any sense...

Then he got very tired very fast, and he felt something cold shooting up his arm, like it was inside him, and it triggered a sense of familiarity, and just for a moment, he knew that he wasn't in a motel, that he was somewhere else, somewhere he'd been before, but before he could finish the thought, unconsciousness consumed him again, and he forgot about the bird and the TV and the curtain and he only knew the darkness.

* * *

When he came to again, it was just as cold as before.

Only this time, it was worse.

It was worse because he could tell that he was in a hospital now. He could identify the sounds and the smells. It was worse because he could feel the tubing meeting his arm and across his face, under his nose. It was uncomfortable and pinching, the tape pulling at the hairs on his skin, but the pain only a theory, because he was so numbed to it, all he felt were twinges and pressure.

But the worst part was that he remembered.

_SAMMY!!! NO, PLEASE, NO....._

He was already screaming inside his head, begging the whirring and the beeping to stop sounding so rythmic, so sure, so certain that he had lived and his brother was-

_He made it, I was just panicking, it wasn't real, he's NOT DEAD, please, god, PLEASE! Don't let it be, don't let him be dead..._

Sam had to be just in the next room, beat and broken, but breathing and being. He was hurt, surely, but he wasn't...he couldn't be...

_NO! GOD PLEASE, NO....._

And then he was slipping again, amidst the same steady sounds, the beeps of the machine counting his heartbeats and the whooshes of air being pressed in and out of his lungs for him, the squeaks of nurses and gurneys strolling or rolling idly by, the deafening quiet that was meant to be respect for the sick and only served to leave Dean scared sensless.

Amidst his fear and his panic and the horrible, horrible peircing dread that was cascading, a waterfall over him as he tried to convince his drug-logged brain that the memories were wrong, Sam wasn't dead, Sam was fine, he was here, he was alive, he was breathing, he was being...

Amidst denial, Dean slid into unonsciousness once more, unable to think, dream, remember, or even listen for the words from a doctor, a nurse, an angel or a devil that would either restart his world, or end it for good.

_Sssaaaaammmmm......_

* * *

"...up, honey? Can you open your eyes for me? Come on..."

The voice was homely, probably belonging to a pudgier woman with dark, curly hair that was cropped short around her slight double chin. He could imagine her oversized floral print shirt with random koalas or tucans. She was probably wearing Nikes from the late nineties. She probably had a beer-belly husband who still thought she was beautiful, two kids grown and in college, and one in high school. She probably loved her job, treated her patients like family, and went to church every Sunday.

Dean already hated her. He hated everything about her, and he still hadn't opened his eyes. He hated her voice and her stupid compassion, her shirt and her shoes and her gentle demeanor. He hated her whole family, her whole church, anyone who had ever met her.

Because she was making him wake up. She was making him face this.

"...to open your eyes now, darlin'. It's time to wake up..."

He didn't want to do it, he didn't want to be conscious, he didn't want to know if...if...

And now he had no choice, and he hated her.

"That's it, open those eyes for me."

He hated her with everything in him.

"There you go."

He could sense the bright flourescence from the room around him through the slits in his eyelids.

"Well welcome back, honey."

His eyes were open, and she looked just like he'd thought she would.

The room was ICU, everything about it was typical. Too clean, too white, too cold.

But not empty. And somehow, emptier than he'd ever seen a room be before in his life.

"Hey, Dean."

It was Bobby. Bobby was here. Bobby was in Dean's hospital room, sitting awkwardly in a plastic chair with metal legs, looking at Dean like he was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

And Dean hated him. He hated seeing Bobby there when all he wanted to see was Sam there, and he still couldn't make words right, the tube was gone from his throat, and his eyes were open at half-mast, and he could tell that he was propped up, casted everywhere, covered in gauze and IV's and tape and...and...

Healing.

_No, no please..._

"Sssssss..."

Dean wanted to scream, to shout the words, but he could only slur a single letter, couldn't move to make a fist or kick or punch or anything.

He felt the first hot tear slide out the crease of his left eye and down the side of his face, past his ear, absorbed by a bandage somewhere.

"Ssss..Sssssss..."

Bobby stood up and walked over to him. Dean realized the pudgy nurse he hated had been gabbering away for a while, mentioning pain medication and stitches and being just fine in a week or two. But she was leaving now, out of the edge of his peripheral vision, backing out of the room with a look like compassion and consideration on her face, probably a face that promised prayer for his loss.

_No, no no no, tell me he's fine..._

Bobby was standing next to him now, a wholly unfamiliar look on his face, his hand reaching up to lay on Dean's slinged shoulder, his eyes looking oddly shiny and full.

"Sssssssss...Sss....Sssssss..."

Dean could feel it now, he could tell it was coming, could feel the second tear slipping down the dried track of the first, could see Bobby's first begin to fall, could feel the strangled sensation, the sobs about to build and be loosed, the complete and total pain that was just ready to pounce, to crash, to cascade...

"I..."Bobby screwed his face up, obviously trying to control himself and failing drastically, "I'm so...so sorry, Dean. Sam, Sam's gone, he, he didn't-" he gulped, a hitch the was a sob but a gasp at the same time,"-didn't make it. He's gone."

And Dean cried. He cried for all he was worth, all Sam was worth, and Sam was worth every tear the world had ever cared to shed, because Sam was gone, his brother was dead, and Dean was alive, and he'd crashed the car, and he hated the car, and he hated Boby even as the man cradled him in his arms, and he hated the bandages and the light and the drugs and the bed, and Dean cried and hated god, and he sobbed out the first words he'd been able to manage since he'd crawled up beside Sam's dead body when they'd wrecked.

"W-_why_," he sobbed into Bobby's jacket, clutching his arm and hating him, "wh-h-hyyyy..."

* * *

He sold the car for parts.

It could've been fixed. It could have been redone, remade. It could've been completely fixed.

He stripped it himself, and sold the parts.

Two weeks had seen his stitches healed, his shoulder better, his leg still casted, and his hair still unevenly cropped, a couple staples across one side.

Two weeks had him at Bobby's house, taking his meds, eating his food, resting his leg, keeping himself out of trouble.

Two weeks had him not talking, relying on the drugs to sleep, staring at his hands, or staring at the wall, or staring at the floor, or staring at the parts of the car he hadn't yet sold.

Two weeks had Bobby worried about him, Ellen bringing clothes and food for him, even Jo showing up for no reason other than to realize she should probably just leave.

It had been two weeks, and nothing had changed.

Sam was still dead.

Dean didn't bother with suicide; Sam wouldn't like it. He didn't bother with crying after the first few days; Sam would've been sad. He didn't bother trying to pretend he was fine; Sam would have been upset with the lies.

And Sam was still dead.

Dean didn't bother with the hunt either, at least not yet. He knew he'd end up having to do something, and he couldn't stand any more loving faces of people he now hated, he couldn't stand anyone thinking they could treat him like family when his only family in the world was gone. He couldn't take anymore compassion or company or people looking at him. He would eventualy go back to the job, would eventually need the hunt, would eventually be the hunter John had been, minus the problem of kids, minus a partner, minus anyone at all. But not yet; hunting was something he did...was _supposed to do _with Sam.

And Sam was still dead.

And Dean was still caught in the torrent, the flood, the cascade.

For all he knew, it might never go away.


	3. Chapter 3

The day was ordinary.

Craig woke at 7:20 to his bleeping alarm, slapped it, dressed, and told his wife goodbye. He was out the door for work by 7:30.

Just another friday morning.

Traffic was fairly standard, and he made it to the office without having to exert much thought. He pulled into the parking garage, bypassing the first two levels, making it to the third and, finally, some free spaces.

One on the right, two on the left, another on the left. _Left it is, then_, and he pulled his car into the spot, put it in park, put down the e-break, and pulled his keys out. It took him almost a full two seconds to realize the radio hadn't shut off with the car.

Craig blinked, looking at the radio, puzzled. "The hell..." he muttered as he tapped it, putting his key back in the ignition, starting the car again, and then turning it off. The radio shut off normally this time, and Craig stared for a second.

"O...kay," he shook his head and reached for his brief case.

Before he had wrapped his hand around the handle fully, the radio came on again, and he jumped, and whipped his gaze back at his radio, somewhat freaked.

"Okay, seriously what-" he let himself be cut off as the station changed, and then changed again, and suddenly the numbers on the dial were rushing and switching and he couldn't tell what station it was, but he was ready to get out of the schizo car now.

He turned and gripped the door handle, but the door wouldn't budge. He immediately went to flip the lock but it was like it had been welded down, and he cussed, _what is going on?_, and turned to face front again, unsure what he should do next; but then the radio froze on nothing but static.

Breathing a bit heavily, Craig swallowed once, staring at the radio dial.

Suddenly, what felt like a muscled arm came from behind him and wrapped itself swiftly and tightly around his neck, pulling him back against the seat, and he didn't even have time to scream, and the air was suddenly cold, and he tried to see who it was in the rearview and there was no one in the reflection, but there was hot breath at his left ear, and a thoroughly chilling voice whispered roughly to him in a way that would have stopped his breath if he hadn't already been choking.

"Who are you?"

Craig couldn't see who was doing this, his eyes were rolling madly, his knees were banging against the steering wheel a he panicked, and his hands were flailing, trying to hit whoever was behind him, but he wasn't hitting anything, he couldn't reach, or the angle was wrong, and he couldn't _breathe_, his vision was spotting, and his jaw was going slack...

"What have you done? Where is he?" the voice growled, demanding. Craig tried to speak, tried to beg, but he couldn't.

"It's not yours," the voice spat, vicious and furious, "you can't have it, it's _not yours_!"

Craig dimly thought of his wife, Angela, and how the last thing he'd ever told her was a routine goodbye, a simple kiss on the cheek when he could have kissed her like he meant it. _Angie... _he drifted, his heart beats fading, his struggles stopped, and he didn't even really hear the voice's last inquiry, not that it would've mattered.

"What did you do to him," the voice kept on madly, rambling on even as it skittered out of audibility, faded out as the static on the radio dissipated, "where is he? It's not yours...what did you do...I'll kill you...it's not yours..."

Craig's wide-eyed body lay lifeless on the third level of the parking garage with the keys still in the ignition, and his cell phone charged, and everything fell to silence as the voice bit out a final echoing phrase into the chilled air.

"_What have you done with my brother_?"

Ebay was a wonderful thing.

Actually, Dean couldn't find in himself to like or dislike it one way or another, but he was sure someone somewhere thought it was great and everything, so it was probably a wonderful thing in that someone's mind. _Sam would probably like it at least... _he thought dully as he finally clicked the send button for the last email confirmation.

The last part of his once precious Impala. Sold, to a guy named Gary in Shullsburg, Wisconsin; the proud owner of his very own vintage rims and not-exactly-cherry-but-close-enough engine components.

Gary was also married, with four kids, 5 foot 10 inches tall, 286 pounds, and responsible for three unpaid parking tickets. Dean had taken the liberty of background checking his buyers - just because he hadn't want her anymore didn't mean she didn't deserve a good home.

He sighed at the computer screen, shutting the machine down and casting his eyes about the room, bored.

Bobby's house never seemed to change. Books were tables and chairs of the place; diagrams covered other surfaces, practiced sigils and symbols on paper, and the window on the south wall had trace paper taped up on it, charcoal in lines on it where Bobby was in the process of copying some ritual template or other.

And Dean sat, in the chair in front of the now blank screened computer. His leg was out of the cast, his hair was growing out again, he'd stopped with the pain meds. Bobby had looked peeved, but hadn't bothered him about it.

The car was sold. He had plenty money as a result to be getting on with. He was fit enough to start working out again, get back into shape.

It was time to start hunting again.

Because Dean still woke up every day and panicked for a second, wondering why Sam's bed was empty and unmade. He still called out to him from time to time, from the bathroom or from outside. He still set out three plates sometimes at dinner, staring for a moment as both he and Bobby stood frozen in an awkward and distinctly painful silence. And then he'd put it back in the cupboard, and avoid the look Bobby would have on his face, the look that was like Bobby had lost a child and didn't know how to pretend it wasn't wrong wrong wrong all wrong. Dean still sat sometimes, with the tv on or with a gun and rag in his hand, and would lift his head and open his mouth to say something to his brother. He felt like he was there, like if he just looked he would laugh at his joke, or respond. But he wasn't. Every time Dean looked, or opened his mouth, he was reminded with a brutal punch that Sam wasn't there. It was like losing an arm, and still feeling phantom pains, phantom sensations; the arm is gone, you're mind just hasn't realized it yet. The phantom sensations of Sam were surrounding Dean every day...every damn day. The phantom pains, from his baby brother with the perfectly calming presence who had died almost a month ago on his watch.

Dean stood and went upstairs to pack his bags. He'd tell Bobby when the man got home from the grocery store. He'd buy a cheap car. He needed to get out of here. He needed to do something.

He pulled out the duffel bags, and tossed his on his bed, already cataloguing the list in his head, and turned to hand Sam his duff-

Dean froze, staring at the bag in his hand. The room quiet. Empty.

Yeah, it was time to start hunting again.

If only to distract himself from the phantoms.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was out still, but making it's decline. The sky looked orange and deep, but somehow recalled liquor...

Or maybe that was just the craving Bobby had. He climbed the steps to his porch, sighing, hefting the bags of food and drink he'd just bought from the market in town. He looked at the door for a moment, not exactly hesitant; maybe just preparing himself, for Dean.

Looking at Dean was hard these days.

The boy was clearly a wreck, but then who could blame him. He'd lost his pride and joy - Sam was always more than just his kid brother. Dean'd raised that boy, Bobby knew. Sam had been his world. Looking at Dean now was like looking at a crippled man.

Like looking into the welling eyes of a man who knew he'd never walk the same again, if he ever found the strength to walk at all.

Bobby steeled himself, pushing the sad thoughts away. Chili. He'd make chili tonight. That's all he had to think about. Chili.

He opened the door to see Dean walking down the stairs towards him, slowing as they came to face each other, just a couple yards apart.

_Chili with cornbread maybe_, he thought sadly, _to go._

Dean told Bobby as straight as he could. He tanked him for having him, was sorry he hadn't been much of a guest or much as far as company went-

"Ah, 'course ya weren't. Things've been hard, Dean."

but he had appreciated it, he really had. It was just time-

"I didn't figure you'd wanna stick around forever, ya know. I get it - the job is jus' whatcha need right now. I'm not an idjit."

The corners of Dean's mouth almost lifted at that. Almost.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, "I think it might...a little."

Bobby looked at him then, long. Dean had to avert his eyes.

"You don't get stupid, alright? Don't make me worry about ya. Check in."

Dean nodded. Maybe he would. He wasn't quite sure. He lifted his head as he took a deep breath, shifting the bag and pulling something from his pocket.

"I, uh," Dean mumbled, the cleared his throat as he put the keys to what had once been the Impala on the kitchen table, "thought I'd leave these with you. Dunno what I'd do with them, and...just...yeah. There ya go." Bobby didn't say anything, and Dean didn't have to look to know what his face would look like, so he just kept talking, "and if it's alright I'm gonna take the Camry from the yard," he pulled out the envelope he'd been keeping the money he'd gotten from selling the Impala parts in, pulling out the amount written on the car outside, "I finished the axle yesterday, so I'l just buy it you and get going-"

"You put that away right now."

Dean looked up, paused in the act of reaching the put the money on the table. He blinked at Bobby, who looked suddenly outraged.

"Bobby, I'm just-"

"No, you aint!"

"Look it's not-"

"Dean, just take it, you don't need to pay me for anything, don't be ridiculous-

"It's not ridiculous, Bobby, I'm taking a car and I'm paying for it-"

"Boy, if you don't put that money away right now I'm getting my gun."

Dean clenched his teeth, meeting Bobby's glare equally.

"You don't owe me anything, son," Bobby growled, "You take what you need, you hear me? And I'm damn well glad to give it. Family don't need no payment."

And it should have been moving, Dean knew it. It should have felt good, knowing that Bobby considered him family, knowing that he had someone, anyone left. He should have just accepted the gift for what it was, thanked him and left, called in a few days and let it be.

But for some reason, all Dean felt was angry, and pained. His family was dead, his family was gone. The last of it had died with Sam, and he didn't need this right now, he didn't want any more family to lose. He didn't want to deal with how Bobby's fatherly love might affect him, and he didn't want to deal with how Sam being gone might be affecting Bobby, or how Bobby might react if Dean did get stupid, if Dean didn't check in a week from now, or a month from now.

Dean couldn't deal with family right now. He had too much grief killing him, he couldn't deal with family too, so he just wanted Bobby to make it simpler for him, at least for now, he just wanted Bobby to keep his distance, at least for a while, he wanted Bobby to

"Just take the damn money!" and he threw it at the table, turned and walked out the door. He headed to the Camry outside, wiped off the chalked priced with his sleeve, climbed in and started it. He looked once over to the passenger side, only once. He bit the inside of his mouth, willing his throat to calm and his eyes to stop it, just stop stop _stop it, _and not well up.

He pulled out and drove away, pushing the expression that Bobby had been wearing out of his mind. He'd deal with it when he could.

If he'd ever be able to at all.

Bobby stared as Dean furiously threw the money at him, and then walked away. He watched the bills flutter, some landing on the table and come skittering to the floor, settling as the sound of the Camry's engine faded away, no doubt churning dirt and dust into the sunset.

He knew Dean was just grieving. He knew he was just struggling to deal. If the boy had wanted to pay him, he ought to 've just let him pay him. He knew Dean didn't mean to hurt him by it.

But Bobby couldn't help the sting in his heart and his eyes, just then. He sat a moment in silence, staring out the kitchen door, to the living room where the couch sat empty, and the books sat quietly collecting dust, and the fireplace sat dirty and unused.

For a moment, he could see a three year old Sam bouncing along after a ball through that room; in his mind's eye he saw him chasing that half-flat ball and all but squealing happily when he caught it. He'd smiled when Dean asked him to tell what color the ball was, _what color is it Sam? Tell me the color_, and Sam had said in his young and unpracticed voice, _Red, Dee, is red, right?, _and then turned to gaze up at the man who had sown up his Daddy the night prior, _Right, Ungle Vobby?_

"Yeah, kid," Bobby whispered to himself, lost in the memory, blinking the sting out of his eyes and letting it drip down his scruffy face, "it's red..."

And then the image was gone, and Bobby was sitting in silence once more, money scattered around his kitchen, chili on his stove, and cornbread in the oven.

Chili, cornbread, and the phantoms of the sons he hadn't even known he had until they were gone.

Dean decided to head to the East Coast.

He wasn't sure why. It'd seemed like a good idea. The West Coast had just too darn much California, and California reeked of Sam. Just too much to take right now.

He stopped at a diner somewhere between Springfield ad Shelbyville, ordered a burger, onion rings, and a coffee for himself and a chicken salad for his _sorry, never mind, just the first half, thanks, _pulled out Sam's laptop and started trolling through newspapers for lead on hunts.

The _Quay County Sun _of Tucumcari, New Mexico seemed to complain of what could be a skinwalker. He bookmarked that one for when he headed west again. The _Dunwoody Crier_ of Georgia described something like a poltergeist. Something that looked worth looking into.

Another something in Georgia.._..sounded like rabies as opposed to a possessed dog, though..._

Someone killed inside a locked car in Maine. _Doesn't look promising..._

Death inside an apartment in Boston, doors locked. _Could be a lot of things..._

Haunted house in Talahassee. _Hm..._.

It was plenty to be getting on with. A lot to choose from, actually. Too much.

He paused over a webpage from _The Morning Call_, a newspaper in Allentown, Pennsylvania. He read over the headline that had caught his eye.

"Man and wife found dead in locked car," Dean muttered, head cocked. He clicked the link, and scrolled down, "Gregory and Denise Karp were found dead in their locked car on Thursday, October 12 by a neighbor..." Dean squinted at it for a second, then went to the computer's history and pulled up the link from the newspaper in Maine, reading it with more interest this time.

"Craig Taylor found murdered in his locked car two days after being reported missing by wife Angela," Dean read to himself, "no evidence found to find a suspect..." Dean leaned back, frowning, waiting for his brain to kick in and tell him what he was missing. Something...maybe he should just ask Sam.

"Hey, Sa-"

He froze, staring at the booth, his uneaten burger. The waitress quickly looked back to her notepad, pretending not to have noticed he had been talking to himself a moment before.

Dean let his face go blank, pulled out his wallet and put out the bills for his food.

Boston. He's choose Boston. The rest could wait.

He shut the laptop, downed is coffee, went to the car and drove.

_Bobby was sitting in the hospital, waiting for Dean to wake up. _How can I tell him? he thought haggardly, rubbing a hand over his face, how can I possibly tell him his brother is dead? He's going to hate me. Aw, Sam, why like this? I can't do this, I can't...

_"Bobby?"_

_Bobby looked up, stunned, into the face of a blue eyes, long-haired, unscathed Sam Winchester, wearing an expression that looked lost and scared._

_"Sam? Sam!" he stood, overjoyed to hug him, "you're okay! You're alive-" but before he could reach him Sam disappeared, and the hospital winked out of sight, and Bobby couldn't see anything, but he reached out to try to grab Sam anyway, he _had _to be just right there..._

_"Bobby..." Sam's voice echoed around him, tortured, "where's Dean?"_

Bobby jack-knifed in bed, panting.

For a tenth of a second before he blinked, he though he saw Sam standing at the foot of his bed in the near black darkness, the same lost expression on his face.

Only a slice of a second, and Bobby saw nothing but his room, his bed, his drawers, his curtain on his window and his shaking hands gripping his sheets.

Sam hadn't been there. Of course not. It was just a nightmare. He helped Dean salt and burn the body himself. He had the ashes in a box downstairs.

It was just a dream.

Bobby put his head in his hands.

Just a dream.

Boston was a waste of time. Dude dead in a locked house. No sign of forced entry, no weapon found, no prints.

The wife did it. What a bitch.

All it took was one talk with the guy's best bud to get it all out. From there it was as simple as a quick peek at the prenup and the life insurance policy, and everything fell into place. Dean met with her, and the woman's fake tears weren't even remotely convincing next to her brand new six thousand dollar earrings.

Stupid cops. He left an anonymous tip for them to check her shoeboxes and talk to the best friend. Like spoonfeeding. Geez.

And now Dean sat in a coffee shop on a corner somewhere downtown, trying to pick the next hunt. _Maybe the Georgia one..._

He looked at the other chair at the little table. He suddenly felt a distinctly heavy blanket of loneliness fall.

There must've been thirty people in the shop, all talking or taking orders or making calls or tapping on their computers. But it seemed much too quiet, quiet without a specific voice, quiet to the point of being oppressive.

Dean looked at the chair, at the quiet.

"Whaddayou think, huh?" he managed to ask the air.

He watched the empty chair.

"Yeah I know," he shook his head a little, " doesn't really matter which."

Dean sat there 'til the place emptied, until it was quieter still and the employees were glancing at him awkwardly, waiting for him to leave so they could close up.

Dean nodded once more, still looking at the empty chair, and he could barely swallow around the huge hot knot in his throat to mutter, "Georgia it is, then."

Ivy shut her stamps drawer and locked it. She went around the counter to the front doors of the post office and made sure they were pulled shut, locked them, and engaged the alarm. Turning, she smiled at Jesse and Martin as they started clearing up and putting things away for the night.

"Thank God it's friday, right?" Ivy laughed, while Jesse boomed out his deep chuckle, stacking the packages to be picked up tomorrow behind the counter.

"We work in a post office Ivy," Jesse said, smirking, "we work on the weekends, too."

"You know what I mean!"

"What you mean," Martin winked at her, elbowing Jesse as he spoke, "is hurry up and finish closing so you can go home to Alan." Both Jesse and Martin laughed, closing the other stamp drawers and finishing the stacked boxes and envelope files. Ivy rolled her eyes, waving her arms at them to herd them toward the back door.

"Potato, potahto," she said, turning away from them to flick off the light switch, "let's go home!" She turned back, and was surprised to see Jesse and Martin nowhere.

"Jesse?" Ivy called, puzzled, "Martin?" She walked through the post office toward the hall to the back door, pulling her sweater around herself at the sudden chill she felt, "did you guys leave already? Wha..."

She halted her steps, and her words faltered when she turned the corner to see both Jesse and Martin on the floor, lit by moonlight from the window and clearly dead, throats open, blood everywhere.

Her eyes bugged, and she stumbled back, gasping air to scream with.

She'd hardly turned when she was met by a letter opener pressed against her throat, and a voice echoing in her ear, "Where is he? What have you done with him?"

The post office didn't open on Saturday in Shullsburg, Wisconsin. An employee found the bodies of her three co-workers inside the next morning, and called the police, sobbing.

Amidst the yellow crime scene tape and confounded police, the stacked packages sat behind the counter, waiting to be picked up, some of the spattered with still drying blood.

On the topmost package, next to a sticker reading EBAY in block letters, read an address to and from.

TO:

Gary Shorr

P.O. Box 28898

1441 Bradley Street

Shullsburg, WI 17833

SENDER:

Dean

Singer's Auto

1874 Ritchers Road

Mobridge, SD 45776

Next to the package lay a bloody letter opener, with no fingerprints to be found.


	5. Chapter 5

This one should've been a two man job.

The motel room sat in silence, save the random bark of a dog or maybe the passing rev of a car. The lamp on the bedside table was on even though no one was there, and the sheets of one bed were rumpled and clearly slept in while the second bed appeared untouched. The door sported a peephole and a list of local numbers; pizza delivery, chinese food, police department, and porn pay per view...

The sound of a rumbling car grew loud outside the room, and then cut off. A squeak of an un-oiled car door, and a slam, plus a curse. Uneven steps sounded, and ended with a thump against the door. A low groan accompanied the sound of keys in the room's lock.

Dean came nearly falling through the door, hissing at the sharp pain in his right left side. He let the door fall slowly shut behind him, stepping stuttered toward the bed, dropping his duffel and stripping his jacket and flannel as he went, a steady stream of darkened red drips following him there.

The poltergeist was a pissy little mother. No, really - the matriarch of the family, short and angry, and way past vengeful spirit into straight out flying knives and quaking beds territory.

"Always with the flying knives," Dean groaned, sitting on the bed closest to the door and gingerly feeling the slice to his side. It wasn't too serious - would take a whole lot of stitches, but _I'll live_, he thought dully.

He looked over his shoulder toward the bed behind, knowing it was empty, but just looking for it anyway. He sighed.

It was just stitches. No big deal. They'd suck, and he'd hate everything for the half hour it'd take to do them, but it wasn't like it was something he couldn't do.

Of course, that didn't mean it wasn't something he'd have preferred Sam to do for him. It felt stupid to care about it, but Dean had never really been alone to patch himself up like this before. Sure, there'd been times when he'd had to sow himself up, but even then Sam was there in the room, or Dad was there. Even in unconsciousness, it was easier than them being gone. With one or both of them there, it still sucked but it was easier. Everything had been so much easier when Sam was there, it had been so so much easier than...

this.

Dean stared blankly at his feet for another minute, then forced himself up and headed to the bathroom to get towels, reaching into his bag and popping a pill en route, trying to remember where he'd put the suture kit.

The dishes in the sink were covered in bubbles, and Bobby was soaked to the elbow in water and dish soap, his sleeves rolled and the stereo in the corner playing Tie A Yellow Ribbon 'Round The Old Oak Tree. He sang along without really thinking about it, even thought some small part of his mind was cringing, knowing that if the boys ever saw him doin' this, he'd never live it down. Even though it _was _a classic...and his wife had always loved it, so...

He washed dishes, more at peace than he'd been for a good while, singing and thinking 'bout the time he'd come home from visiting family in Oregon, and seen a hundred yellow ribbons tied on the porch beam. She'd done it just to remind him how much she loved him, she'd said...

"Bobby?"

"Yeah?" Bobby called back, still smiling at the thought.

Silence.

Then Bobby gasped, blinking, and jumped away from the sink with the sponge still in hand, whirling. Everything seemed to slow, the bowl he'd been handling tumbling toward the ground, still sudsy, to shatter across the wooden floor.

Bobby faced the empty room, hand to his chest, hovering above his pounding heart, breathing heavy and eyes frantic. He'd known that voice, he thought, feeling suddenly sick. He _knew_ that voice like he knew anything.

"S-sam?" Bobby whispered, hating himself for even asking it, but almost wishing it were true, and simultaneously horrified by the fact that it might be, it just might be...

Nothing moved, it was quiet save for the running water, his panting breaths, and the stereo playing next to him still. Bobby's face screwed up, and he cussed as he threw down the sponge in the sink, his eyes stinging again with his gut feeling twisted and hollow. He shut off the water and bent to pick up the shards of the bowl, putting them on the counter and then putting his hands on the sides of the sink, glaring at the window. Warring within himself.

It might've just been his imagination, Bobby knew it very well could've been. He'd been a wreck for the last month, and he missed Sam like he'd been his own son, missed him for himself and for Dean. _It might just be my imagination these past few days. I could be losing it entirely for all I know._

_Yeah,_ he told himself dully, _it might just be my imagination._

He looked over his shoulder at the kitchen, and down at the pieces of broken porcelain bowl on the counter.

_Or it might not._

Bobby closed his eyes as the last chorus of the song died, and every bit of peace he'd felt when it had started was gone.

Dean was taking a second look at those car deaths.

He couldn't figure out what bugged him about them. One was a man, one was a couple. Different cars, different states, different jobs, different nationalities, different ages. Nothing seemed to link them. It didn't make any sense, but he had this gut feeling that there was something there, something he was missing...

And then this morning, trolling around for hunts, he'd found two more just like them.

He had a feeling - this was one of those hunts, it had to be. The kind that his dad used to put together, months and months of reading the simple signs and connecting dots that nobody else saw, finding a hunt in the small small curiosities across counties and states.

He took a look at the third one again, bringing up the article on the laptop's screen. Frustrated, he toggled the tabs, glanced at the fourth, and then something clicked, and his head cocked.

His eyes widened.

This last one was a name he recognized.

A sharp sliver of something between fear and panic shot up from his stomach through to his throat, and he didn't even know why, but he could tell that he was about to be clued in, he was close to the something he was missing.

He double and triple checked the other names, but the first three he didn't recognize.

The fourth was a Jon D. Ramirez of San Bernardino, California. Dean scrambled from his seat, almost falling, aiming for his duffel. John is a common name, and he'd hazard a guess at probably a million people witht he last name Ramirez in the world, but he knew he recognized San Bernardino. He ripped through his bag, breathing fast, finding the envelope with the money, the printed out ebay receipts. He puled out the one at the bottom of the pile, the first part of the Impala he'd sold after getting out of the hospital.

Hood, hood hinges, and dash harness sold for $871.00 to Jon David Ramirez in San Bernardino, California. Dean looked back to the article, and then down again at his receipt.

Same person. It had to be the same person. _Oh god._

He stood again, bringing his receipts to the table with him, returning to the first article.

Craig Taylor. A name he didn't recognize, but the city, Westbrook.

Westbrook, Maine.

Dean rifled through his receipts. Username classik_buff_941, address in Westbrook, Maine. Alternator brackets and pulley, clutch forks, boots, springs, and z-bars.

Dean lifted his face to stare at the computer screen, trying to catch his breath. He'd sold parts of the Impala to both of these men just before they died.

Dean all but attacked the computer, typing frantically, calling up the other names, the other cities, comparing and checking. There was no question, each checked out. He reversed the process, looking up the rest of the cities, searching their newspapers, choking on the discovery of a 19-year-old kid killed in a garage, a collector found dead at an car show, three throats slit at a post office Gary Shorr's P.O. Box was.

Dean gripped his hair with his hands, standing and backing away from the computer, pacing madly through the room.

He was an idiot. A cautionless, empty headed, irresponsible idiot!

"What the hell? What, what the HELL!" How could he have missed this? How could he not think - the Impala had been bloodstained by countless people, played temporary storage house to countless bodies and body parts of creatures and victims and weapons and supernatural objects.

It was the epitome of 'recipe for a haunting'. People were dead now. A 19-year-old kid.

Dean cursed repeatedly, hand still gripping his hair and on the verge of hyperventilation.

What was he gonna do? Hunt down every single piece? God, that would take forever, every new owner could die before he found just one. He needed to find out what it was, what was doing this, and fast. It would be anything, or any_one_ who spilled blood in there and died after, or even died in-

All at once it was like the world shut down.

"No," Dean's voice reflexively spouted, hollow, weak.

It couldn't be. Never.

"No, no," Dean shook his head, gazing stricken at the laptop, as if refuting an accusation from it.

It _couldn't_ be. He'd been cremated, salted prior. Bobby had the ashes. They'd gotten everything, it'd been possibly the most torturous process of Dean's life.

"It's not him," Dean breathed to himself, almost begging his mind to stop following the train of thought, "it's not..."

Except that it made all the sense in the world. Sam had bled all over those seats, all of his life, even the trunk, and on weapons. It was his home, equivalent to his house. It was the one thing that had been as constant as Dad or Dean himself had been in his life. The car was like a piece of Sam, just like it was for Dean. The Impala could easily be his house to haunt...

"Oh my god," Dean gritted out, not even aware that tears were streaming unchecked, no conscious of the fact that his breathing had morphed, and as the first sob hit, so did the wave of sheer nausea, and Dean stumbled to the bathroom to be sick.

He retched, all the while his mind chaos, fighting one side against the other.

Sam's body is salted and burned.

The car soaked up more than enough of Sam's sweat, tears, and blood to count as remains.

_Sam would never hurt another person._

_Sam is a trained killer just like you._

_Sam has no reason to stay a spirit._

_Sam would never leave if he could help it._

_Sam couldn't kill a kid, couldn't hurt a woman._

_Sam as a spirit wouldn't be Sam anymore._

Dean reached for the sink, to pull himself up. He gulped back another sob, leaning over the sink, turning the faucet on to splash his face.

Looking up into the mirror, he knew which side in his head had won.

Everything pointed to Sam. A spirit. A violent spirit.

A monster. One of the things they hunted.

Dean felt himself crumble just outside the bathroom, falling to his knees in the middle of the room, and he buried his face in his hands to cry, wondering how he could ever possibly find the strength to do what he knew he had to.

He wondered, jagged and searing the thought was, how he could ever hunt his pride and joy.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean knew what he had to do.

So he went out and got a fifth of whiskey. And a bottle of tequila.

He'd slumped onto his bed, facing the other bed, and downed nearly two thirds of the fifth before he picked up the phone to call the only person he could think to call.

Before he could finish dialing Bobby's number into his cell, he hesitated. He'd been a downright jerk to Bobby when he'd seen him last, he knew it. At best Bobby would be hurt and upset. Maybe calling him wouldn't be such a...but Dean knew he'd want to know...and he needed someone else here, he couldn't contemplate this- this- this hunt on his own...

Hunt had never seemed like such a disgusting and horrific word before.

Dean stared at the phone, uncertain, and it rang, Bobby's caller ID shining at him. He jumped, surprised and just barely realizing he was halfway drunk. Fumbling for a moment, blinking hard once, Dean answered, and tried not to sound like he'd bawled his eyes out an hour earlier.

"Bobby?" he asked, still surprised.

"Dean."

And just like that, Dean didn't care one bit about pride or bravery or the threat of loss of anything, he just needed the security of family right now, any family at all, and Bobby was the closest and truest family he had, would possibly ever have again, and he couldn't believe he'd been such and idiot to think it could go otherwise.

"Bobby," he said, and the tremor in his voice was pronounced, but he didn't even care, he was trying to hard to figure out how to say _man, I'm sorry_.

"Dean?" Bobby sounded concerned. Dean didn't know what to say, he could never do this chick flick crap like Sam could. He knew what he wanted to say, I'm sorry for what I said, I didn't mean it, and Bobby would say Boy it's ok, and they'd be good, just like normal. But saying it really frickin hard for some reason.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, m'ere," the slur was unintentional, but oh well. It was quiet for a moment. How could he tell him about Sam? What could he possibly say...

"Dean..."

"Yeah," Dean managed around his suddenly tight throat.

"You drunk?"

Dean would have chuckled at that. A month ago, he would have chuckled at a lot of things - he would have chuckled in general, period.

Now? Dean didn't chuckle. About everything. The laughter he had was gone.

"No," Dean shook his head, and then continued honestly, without any sarcasm, "not yet. I've got plenty o' whiskey left though, so I'm not too worried." He could practically hear Bobby's facial expression.

"Ah geez, kid," he gruffed, sounding sad, and then he asked like he already knew the answer, "what's goin' on?"

Dean swallowed twice around the lump in his throat, taking another swallow of the whiskey, his eyes feeling hot and his vision blurring again.

"Its...," Dean sniffed once, quietly, "it-it's Sam..."

It was quiet on the other end, and for a moment Dean wondered if Bobby had even heard him. Then, like a delayed reaction, he heard the sudden intake of breath, and the fumbled sounds of the phone switching to the opposite hand and ear.

"Whaddaya mean it's Sam?" Bobby spoke quickly, sounding suddenly intense, not exactly what Dean had expected but hey, another swallow of whiskey, and he was responding just as fast, his voice breaking.

"I mean he's not gone, not all'a way. He's following the parts o' the car, Bobby. He's fall...followin' the Impala, he's...he's hurting people. The people I sold the car parts to, Bobby, Sam's...Sam's not all th'way _gone_."

Bobby stood stricken, listening to Dean confirm his fears.

"...he's hurting people. The people I sold the car parts to, Bobby..."

Slowly, even as Dean was still speaking, ever so slowly Bobby turned, away from the dock for his phone and toward the small dresser by the kitchen door, she dresser where the Impala's keys lay, glinting in the orange setting sunlight.

"Oh," was all Bobby could think to say, "well damn."

"Bobby?"

"Do you know why?" Bobby asked, still looking at the keys, "I mean, what's he here for."

"I..." Bobby heard Dean gulp a breath, and god that boy must be tortured outta his mind right now, and he was shocked to hear what sounded like nearly a sob.

"I have no idea," Dean admitted, voice hitched and shaking, "I just...I have no idea."

Bobby shook his head, stunned.

He had no idea either. He walked to the dresser, tentatively picking up the keys.

He had no idea either.


	7. Chapter 7

When he tried to put his next actions in order, for memory's sake or whatever, Dean couldn't remember exactly how he'd ended the conversation with Bobby, but he'd hung up the phone at some point and continued to drink.

The tequila tasted like a bite down his gullet, numbing a path that seared when it was doused again, but only peripherally, in comparison. The bite took the greater senses away, and left something like half-asleep nerves. Half asleep nerves that only registered a half-conscious kind of pain.

He just kept sitting and drinking until he was sick, and then until he was sick again.

By the time Dean managed to convince himself he'd had enough, he barely had enough coherency to notice passing out. When he woke up to the sound of the room's radio-alarm blurting Johnny Cash through a cracked speaker, he was so hungover he could barely make it to the car.

He started it and had one momentary hesitation in which he wondered whether he really ought to be driving, and then told his pounding brain to shut the hell up. He tried not to puke as he swerved his way onto the interstate, not entirely sure where he was headed yet. He needed something in his mouth other than the taste of stale alcohol, vomit, and cheap motel toothpaste.

He made a coffee run in sunglasses. The cashier was a younger guy, who made a joke about hard parties and rough nights. Dean just shoved a twenty at him, hoping he'd be quick. Dean wanted to keep his mouth shut - not because he didn't feel like speaking, but he was pretty sure if he tried opening his mouth he'd hurl all over the dude's cash register, and that might cause problems. But then the cashier looked at him over his long nose and asked, "Is that all then or you want anything else?" right as Dean caught sight of a little heat lamp right there on the counter hovering over a greasy tray with mozzarella cheese sticks, pretzels, corn dogs, and little cups of french fries. All of which looked disgusting and likely to send Dean into the alley to puke. Again.

Dean gritted his teeth and tried to keep his mouth as closed as possible while grunting out, "Fries, too," because it sounded all of the last thing he wanted in the world right now, but he'd learned, from Sam of all people, that french fries frickin' cured hangovers. It made zero sense, and when the guy handed him his change it took all of Dean's resolve not to trash the fries right away. But after forcing the coffee and a handful of the french fries down his throat, he felt legitimately better.

Or as good as he could be expected to feel, considering the circumstances. So to rephrase, he felt like he was spiraling down a hole directly into hell. Or you know, something equally awful.

At any rate, after four hours of driving northwest-ish, he gave up trying to ignore the elephant screaming profanities in his head, and pulled over. The sky was darkening, roiling clouds edging towards the highway, faint thrum threatening thunder. He watched the storm from afar, leaning against the car to face it as it neared, and called Bobby again.

The phone barely finished the first ring before Bobby picked up and growled out a, "If you've gone and died of alcohol poisoning I'll kill ya," to which Dean had to bite back the response of _I wish_ that rose from his tongue. Even spiraling into a sizzling despair, he knew not to test Bobby when he was using that voice. Still, Dean couldn't find any reason to be dishonest about the thing.

"Not quite, but there's always tomorrow night."

"Dean..."

"I know, Bobby, just...forget it. What're gonna do about...about." He couldn't finish. Bobby didn't try to do it for him either, he just heaved a long sigh that sounded like scrunched paper over the phone.

"I've been thinking, and I don't think we got a better route to take than common sense, Dean. Ain't nothin' for it but to get back all the car parts."

They were silent for a long, threatening moment. A mild boom sounded, making Dean flinch. The storm was getting closer. It looked like it might begin to rain in a while. How fitting.

"Y-yeah. Yeah..."

"Steal if you have to. You've gotta get 'em back Dean, and I know, alright? I know, but...you gotta burn 'em. There's just no way else I can think to do the thing, there's no pattern, and...well, it's gotta be done, and I don't think he would want anyone else doin' it."

And Dean knew that. Of course he had. But hearing it, just thinking about hunting down his...his brother, bit by metal bit, burning scraps of his soul or spirit or whatever away with each one...

"God, Bobby...god..."

He heard him inhale like he might say something, but nothing came. Dean put a hand over his face, scrubbing over it and then gripping his hair.

"There's, ah...no um, there's no pattern. Not that I could..." Dean gritted his teeth, forcing himself to pull in a shaky breath and control himself, "The order I sold them doesn't seem to matter, or the location," he explained, "I thought maybe the placement of the parts in the car maybe, but he...he didn't know crap about cars, that wouldn't make sense, you know."

And if admitting that didn't hurt like a bullet, Dean was a girl scout.

Bobby answered almost too quickly, and Dean barely noticed that his voice sounded hollow, somewhat guarded.

"Why he's doing it doesn't matter. If we can't predict it, we can at least work as fast as possible. We can't save everyone, but we can try to save as many as possible. Just work your way down the list. I'll take a coast and you can take the other.

"No," even as he said it, Dean knew it was stupid. He could be putting people at risk to refuse help, but then he thought of Bobby burning a piece of Sam without him there...

"Dean, you know I can help-"

"We don't know how violent he...how dangerous this could be. Sam and I...you know we're messed up. He's bound to take this to a whole new freaky level. No way, Bobby, I'm not gonna let you risk your life for us. You've done it too many times already. This one is on me, and I'm gonna fix it."

Bobby was quiet for a moment, and when he finally spoke, Dean was surprised by both his answer, and the the flatness of his voice, even if the looming storm was threatening to cut the call off, Bobby's voice beginning to break up in his ear.

"Alright. Yeah, alright..."

There was no use fighting this one. If Bobby was honest, he had no desire to be the one to burn the last remnants of Sam out of existence.

"Alright."

Bobby was staring at the keys still. They sat just a feet away, reflecting orange from the falling sunlight sneaking through the window's curtains. They looked innocent, beautiful even.

"Yeah, alright..."

Dean didn't want him to get hurt. But what if...

He should tell him.

"You better start with the closest orders. Map out a route so you can just follow it, without thinking. And check in with me, even if it's just messages. You get hurt and I'm gonna be on your ass like an APB." He couldn't take his eyes off the keys, couldn't ignore now that he'd failed to notice how the house had been slightly chilled for a couple days. Cooler than the sun ought to have allowed.

He should tell him now.

Something was holding Bobby back, stupidly. he couldn't shake the image of the bouncing red ball, the sadness of Sam's eyes, the fear in his echoing voice. He couldn't shake it, and part of him didn't want to.

But he had to tell Dean. He had to tell him _now_.

"Dean."

He paused, and got nothing back but a kind of interference. His heart leapt into his throat, and his eyes widened.

"Dean?"

"Bo-b...Bo...y...nk...ur br...ng u..."

Of course. Suddenly, all Booby wanted to say was everything except what he should have.

"You be careful, you hear me? Dean? Be careful."

"Ye...I...all yo..."

Bobby just sighed and hung up. He watched the phone for a moment, wondering if he'd made a mistake..._knowing_ he'd made a mistake...

"Bobby?"

Bobby whirled, feeling like he might be having a stroke.

The house was empty and darkening around him. The keys remained where they had been sitting all day, unmoved, the light on them fading. Bobby listened to the sound of his own panting doing nothing to fill the space around him.

No one there.

Bobby felt some part of him crumple. He covered his face with his hands. He sat for maybe half a minute, wrestling in stillness.

As the sun finally fell behind the fence around his property, Bobby made a decision. His hands dropped, his face stoic.

He went and grabbed the keys.


End file.
